The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  When he reached the paving stones he immediately rolled to the right, taking cover behind the rear left leg of the platform.

  He ignored the bodies Sam had shot and scanned the square beyond them with his AK. In front of the stage lay more fallen muj, courtesy of the resistance. As the other operatives took up positions around him, he spotted three militants lurking behind the decorative cement posts that dotted the square; they fired toward the resistance positions, leaving their backs exposed to him.

  Ethan unleashed two separate bursts from his AK, removing two of the militants in turn, while William eliminated the third.

  Ethan hauled himself to his feet.

  "To the pickups!" he said, fighting through the sudden stars that obscured his vision.

  He took a step but the vertigo overwhelmed him and he tripped.

  Sam was at his side in an instant, helping him stand.

  "I got you," Sam said. Her strength, after everything she had been through, was unexpected. She was like a solid beam at his side.

  As they reached the closest pickup, assault rifle bursts came in from the square. The four operatives ducked behind the frame of the truck.

  Sam peered into the driver's side. "No keys!"

  Ethan had dropped to the cobblestone, and was scanning the square via the space between the undercarriage and the street. "Can you hot wire it?"

  "Can't be done," Sam said, squatting down beside him.

  "Let me," Doug approached the door.

  Sam held out an arresting hand. "Trust me, I know how to hot wire. And it's impossible to jack this model without the proper tools. The immobilizer will shut it down unless I plug in a decoy unit, which I don't have."

  Doug looked out at the fallen militants near the stage, and for a moment Ethan thought he was going to brave the line of fire to search the dead men for keys, but then he squatted down beside Sam.

  "On foot, then," Ethan said, nodding toward a side street partially shielded by the truck.

  "Go!" William had positioned himself at the rear of the pickup, and was strafing the square.

  Ethan and the others crossed the gap from the pickup to the side street and took cover behind the buildings. Ethan paused at the edge and laid down suppressive fire as William dashed across.

  When the operative reached them, Ethan turned around, ready to flee, only to discover Doug lying on the ground.

  "What's going on, was he shot?" Ethan asked Sam, who was hovering protectively above him. She reminded Ethan of a mother bear who, though exhausted and weary, had reached down to the very depths of her being to find the strength to protect her cubs. A mother bear who would die before letting harm come to any one of them.

  Sam shook her head, and helped him to his feet. "He just needs a moment."

  William planted himself beneath Doug's other armpit. "Sam, I got him. Let's go!"

  Ethan brought up the rear, while Sam led the way. The crowd had dispersed by then so that they were the only ones on the road. Easy targets. Ethan kept swiveling his torso to watch their six.

  An unarmed Iraqi emerged from an alleyway up ahead. He was older, maybe in his sixties, with a grey mustache. He held his hands out in front of him and waved.

  "This way." He said in heavily accented English. "Quickly!"

  Sam hesitated only a moment, then herded the others toward the man and the alleyway.

  "Are you a member of the resistance?" she asked him in Arabic when they had ducked into the alley.

  The man laughed. "No. I will never touch a gun again, Allah willing."

  "Then why do you help us?" Sam said. "If they catch you, they will kill you."

  The man smiled grimly. "Let's just say I hold no love for the Islamic State."

  "You are Shia," Sam said.

  He looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. "Good guess."

  The Good Samaritan led them through the twisting series of alleys between the closely spaced buildings. Ethan helped William with Doug, as the operative still couldn't stand on his own two feet, and was slowing them down. Wrinkling their noses, they leaped over a small, winding stream an open sewer formed in one alley.

  "I used to work for the CIA," the Iraqi said. "During the war. I helped locate many insurgents. These alleyways proved quite useful when the soldiers needed to get to them without warning the entire neighborhood."

  "Forget the CIA," Sam said. "I want you to work for me. Give me your number. "

  The man shook his head. "I am through with those days. I am sorry."

  "I can pay you well," Sam insisted.

  "Some things are worth more than money. Peace of mind, for example. Knowing that no one will try to kill me today when I wake up in the morning."

  "But you're a Shia," Sam said. "Living under a brutal Sunni regime. How does that give you peace of mind?"

  "Good point," the Iraqi said.

  The latest alley doubled back toward the street at one point, and Ethan watched black SUVs and pickups speed toward the square. The truck beds overflowed with eager mujahadeen armed with rocket launchers and assault rifles.

  The route turned inwards once more, and a few moments later the group emerged on the banks of the Tigris. The muddy shoreline was littered with debris—tires, buckets, plastic bottles.

  The old man pointed at the river. "Your salvation."

  Ethan and the others exchanged hesitant looks. Because of the sectarian bloodletting, villages upriver routinely dumped sewage and dead bodies into the water. Who could say what parasites contaminated the Tigris? Schistosomes. Fecal coliforms. Pathogenic viruses.

  "Go," Sam said.

  Without a word of complaint, the operatives started running down the bank. Islamic State brigades were probably fanning out in the alleyways behind them at that very moment. The river, even if contaminated, was their best hope.

  Ethan paused when he realized Sam lingered with the old man.

  She clasped his hands and spoke quietly, probably giving the man some number to call if he changed his mind about working for her.

  Then Sam joined them and the operatives dove into the fast moving river.

  The water was cold. Maybe fifteen degrees Celsius. Ethan's breath came in abrupt, jolting gasps. He began to tread-water with the current simply to keep warm.

  William remained with Doug, helping him stay afloat.

  "You sure you haven't been shot, bro?" William asked him.

  "Positive," Doug answered.

  The water stung the thumb and forefinger of Ethan's right hand. He examined the digits: fresh globs of yellowish-red fluid discharged from the fingernail areas. At some point he must have scraped the tender nail beds, probably on the trigger guards of the Makarov or AK. He hadn't noticed at the time because of the adrenaline, but the two fingers certainly hurt at the moment. Thankfully the cold water quickly numbed his extremities.

  He did feel other symptoms of adrenaline hangover, however—specifically lightheadedness and an upset stomach. He also had a terrible headache, though that was likely brought on from lack of food.

  But for all that pain, he was alive.

  As Ethan bobbed up and down in the current, he watched the low-slung buildings slide past. He reflected on the last several minutes, and on how close to death he had come.

  He had escaped execution at the hands of the Islamic State.

  Barely.

  Probably time I started looking for a new line of work, he thought.

  Unexpectedly, he began to laugh. A loud, boisterous guffaw.

  The other operatives exchanged looks and then they too erupted in wild, unrestrained laughter.

  New line of work? You live for this, bro.

  16

  Ethan and the others broke into a shuttered clothing store near the river and replaced their orange jumpsuits with the typical Mosul winter wear of slacks, sweaters, jackets, and winter caps. They wore gloves to hide their raw fingernails. Ethan also changed his shoes, as the used runners the Islamic State had given him were a bit tight. Donnin
g the new gloves, socks and boots brought brief stabs of pain to his exposed nail beds.

  Sam took an abaya and full veil for herself.

  "You should play a man," Doug said. He was feeling a little better by then, and was able to stand on his own at least. "None of us have any IDs. If you go as a woman, we can't prove you're related to us."

  "It doesn't matter," Sam said. "If they haven't already, the Islamic State will be distributing our photos to the smartphones of militants throughout the city, via Bluetooth and Airdrop. We can't allow ourselves to be stopped. Checkpoints are off limits. We have to avoid any and all fighters."

  Sam strapped the rifles and magazines underneath her abaya via a jury-rigged harness she constructed out of three belts, positioning the weapons vertically so that her body shape hid them. She then had the other operatives pick out abayas and full veils for later use themselves; they stuffed the extra clothing into shopping bags and vacated the store.

  The group received stares on the streets, probably because of their bruised and gaunt faces. They skirted the few militants they saw, ducking into alleys or shops along the way, and made their way back toward the apartment whose courtyard served as their base of operations. Finding the building proved tricky without GPS, given the size of the city. They had to ask the locals for directions several times, but eventually they found the proper neighborhood—the profusion of potholes, open sewers, and scabrous dogs were a dead giveaway. The Land Cruiser wasn't anywhere nearby, unfortunately, as they had left it on the other side of town near the black site.

  Ethan was the first to spot the carefully-placed network cameras that marked the base. Situated atop the cinder block fence that surrounded the courtyard, the cameras seemed intact—a good sign. Even so, the operatives split up and performed separate surveillance detection runs, rendezvousing back at the apartment ten minutes later.

  "No tails," Ethan said. "Nor any signs of watchers. Though you never know with all the canopied balconies around." He indicated the apartment building across the street.

  "Noted," Sam said. "Get to it."

  They waited for two civilians to walk past; when the men were gone, Ethan, William and Doug hauled themselves over the cinder block. Sam remained outside to keep watch. Ethan and the others gathered their backpacks, collected the tiny network cameras dispersed along the perimeter, then rejoined Sam and made their way out of the neighborhood. There was no reason to believe the original location had been compromised, especially since nothing had been touched, but Sam refused to take any chances.

  They bought some street food with the money stash they'd retrieved. They went all out, splurging sixty US dollars on four servings of quzi—a curried lamb served over rice—with falafel balls on the side.

  Roughly four blocks from the previous base, Sam picked out a set of three apartments that shared a common courtyard. The doors and windows were boarded up, the grounds unkempt—a good sign.

  Ethan did a quick circle of the block. Satisfied that they weren't being watched, he returned and jumped the fence with the others. He landed in a messy yard of dried grass and weeds. An industrial wooden spindle lay abandoned in the center, stinking of cat urine.

  The group unloaded their belongings in the far corner of the courtyard, behind a pair of date palms. Like the terebinth tree of the previous location, the palms shielded the operators from the boarded up windows that faced into the courtyard.

  Sam unencumbered herself of the hidden rifles and magazines, and then helped set up the tiny network cameras along the cinder block fence. When that was done, the group set to devouring the quzi.

  Ethan finished his meal first and retrieved the medkit from the stash. He cleaned his nail beds with saline fluid, sprayed them with antiseptic, and applied dressings. The exposed bed of his pinky finger seemed a little swollen—maybe infected. He'd just have to clean and disinfect it daily, and hope the raw tissue didn't get worse. He'd have it looked at by a specialist when he returned to civilization.

  He replaced his shoes and gloves, took a capsule for the diarrhea, then passed the kit to William. He and the other operatives proceeded to dress their wounds in turn.

  When that was done, they cataloged their remaining equipment: backup smartphones and laptop; the Iridium Go for satellite Internet; the medkit; and duct tape. There weren't any radios, or USBs with secret RF components, and they had no munitions other than the AKs they'd snatched during the escape. Sam promised to arrange a supply drop at the earliest opportunity.

  "What's that in the ground?" William nodded at a series of holes someone had dug near one of the trees.

  Sam glanced up from the laptop she'd taken from their stash; on the display were the video feeds from the cameras.

  "Those are wells," Sam said. "Residents dug them throughout the city when the tap water became undrinkable."

  William walked to the edge of the holes. "Look dry to me."

  "Probably why these apartments are empty," Sam said.

  "You know," Doug said. "I've figured it out."

  "Figured what out?" Sam had returned her attention to the laptop.

  "You planned the whole episode back there from the start."

  Sam's brows furrowed. "I did?"

  "Yes. You wanted to get captured, because you knew it would draw the sheik out. Taking down senior Islamic State leadership, that's part of our overall objective in the country, isn't it?"

  "Well sure, but—"

  Doug spoke over her. "So you let them capture you, knowing we'd come get you, and that they'd take us, too. And then when the sheik came out of hiding to execute us, you knew we'd terminate him during our escape."

  He grinned widely, obviously joking.

  William wasn't so amused. "We almost died, bro."

  "Yeah, but we didn't."

  "No thanks to you," William complained. "Dragging your ass back there."

  "Hey, when you're tortured, drugged and starved for a week, it kind of gets to you, you know?"

  "Wasn't a week," Ethan mumbled.

  "What's that?"

  Ethan glanced at Doug wearily. "I said it wasn't a week. More like three days."

  Doug produced his backup smartphone from the stash and activated the screen. He showed Ethan the date. "Today's the fifth. It's been six days since we were first captured. You've lost your sense of time, bro."

  Ethan shook his head incredulously. "Six days? No wonder."

  Sam set aside the laptop.

  "Obviously I didn't plan any of this," she said. "I have to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for coming to get me. All of you. You went far above and beyond the call of duty. I'll see that you're awarded the agency's highest honors."

  "Don't want no medals," William said. "Just doing my job, ma'am."

  "As were we all," Ethan said, meaning it.

  Sam smiled. "If you hadn't acted back there, Ethan..." She shook her head. "I had nothing. Nothing. For the first time in my life, I was going to watch one of my operatives executed in cold blood, someone who was like a son or brother to me, and there was nothing I could do. Nothing. I've never felt so helpless. It was worse than anything I've ever experienced. Worse than torture."

  Ethan reached out and gripped her gloved hand, careful not to brush her fingernail areas. He had no words of comfort for her. There weren't any you could say to that. But holding her hand, looking into her eyes, it was enough.

  Sam released her grip and retrieved the Iridium Go. She popped in the battery and activated the device by swiveling the thick antenna skyward.

  "Looks like it still has a substantial charge," she said.

  "The buildings might block the signal," Doug told her.

  After a moment she shrugged. "The Wi-Fi is showing up."

  She connected the laptop to the Wi-Fi and started sending emails, a whole bunch of them, typing rapidly. Ethan wondered if it hurt, given her lack of fingernails.

  "Get in touch with any assets you have in the Middle East," she said. "Through shared emails, phone
, what have you. Tell them to go into hiding until we can arrange new identities for them. While we don't know who we gave up and who we did not, our phones contained a treasure trove of contact information."

  "But all that data was encrypted," William said.

  Sam smiled sadly. "Yes. But you're assuming we didn't reveal our passwords under duress. The interrogators would have pushed the hardest for that knowledge. In fact, I'm convinced we'd still be in custody if we hadn't given that up, with interrogations ongoing." She looked downward, and exhaled deeply. "Though almost everything else is a blank, I do remember one particularly harrowing session. They hauled the three of you in front of me. They held 9-mils to your heads. They said they would execute you if I didn't give up the password to my phone. I couldn't stand by... I couldn't let them do it. So I gave it up. Gave it up. They broke me."

  Everyone was quiet a moment.

  "They broke all of us, Sam," Ethan said.

  She finally glanced up. "My point exactly. Which is why we have to assume our phones were compromised. And why we have to contact every asset in the region."

  William frowned. "The Islamic State only controls portions of Syria and Iraq, with a small cheerleading section in Libya. Seems like a lot of work to get in touch with assets outside those countries."

  "It is," Sam agreed. "But we can't be sure the Caliphate won't share or sell any intel they've gathered with other terrorists groups such as Al Qaeda or Al Nusra. Then there's the little matter of the Siberian Laika."

  Ethan sat back. "The Siberian Laika?"

  "I haven't heard that name in years," Doug said.

  "That's a species of hunting dog, isn't it?" William said. "A hound."

  "Yes," Sam said, typing rapidly. "And it suits him. He's been hunting me for years. He was present at the interrogations. Mine at least. I remember his face only fleetingly, between sessions, but he was there."

  "Are you sure you didn't hallucinate?" Doug said.

  "He was there," Sam insisted.

  "I still don't know who this Laika is," William said.

  Sam glanced at him. "A known mercenary for hire. Currently works for Victor Bogdanov, a black marketer and weapons dealer whose specialty is the Middle East. He got his start smuggling European luxury cars into Iraq via Jordan. He was arrested by the Jordanian government in 2002, spent most of the Iraq War behind bars, and after he got out he used the contacts he made in prison to expand into arms dealing."